


But You’re a Masterpiece

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, boys in make up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: He misses Merlin painting his lashes and he’s bitter. As lovely as as the dark, thick lines framing his blue, blue eyes are, Arthur likes watching the slow blink-pull rhythm Merlin has. He bites at his neck to let him know, and Merlin keens in his throat. He’s panting and Arthur knows they’re almost done with this game, but he can’t help himself as he dips his fingers into Merlin’s waistband. Strong fingers grip his wrist, hold tight until Arthur knows he’ll have marks to cover, but he’s feeling defiant, so he pulls against the grip and slips his hand low, lower, until he is gripping Merlin.





	But You’re a Masterpiece

Arthur loves days like this, rainy and slow with no expectations. It’s a random Wednesday and he’s curled beneath the cover watching the sun try to break through the clouds, lazy and slow as he feels. He can smell Merlin’s abandoned tea by the bed, and he knows it is going to be a good day. Because he knows what the cooling tea means, where Merlin has decided to spend his day off.

Arthur makes his way into the sitting area of the tiny flat, and just as he expected Merlin is sitting there facing the window. There’s a mirror balanced against a chair in front of him, an assortment of products spread around him. He’s just rubbing his hands over his cheeks when he catches sight of Arthur slipping into the room, lazy lashes brushing his cheeks as Arthur takes his spot behind him.

He settles behind Merlin, who leans against him, offers him a sleepy smile. Arthur kisses his neck, just once, trailing his hands over Merlin’s hips. “You started without me.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Just the primer, dove. Not very far at all.”

Arthur frowns and nips at his ears, teeth a too-hard pressure that makes Merlin wince. “You started without me.”

He doesn’t get a response, other than a hard prod to the inside of his knee with the end of a brush Arthur only vaguely recognizes. “Well, go on!”

Merlin snorts, tilts his head back to kiss the underside of Arthur’s chin and ask “if I don’t?” He’s got a smirk on his lips that Arthur isn’t fond of. But he knows the rules of this game and he brushes a hand over Merlin’s crotch, gentle and teasing. Merlin swallows, eyes him, and then gasp when Arthur squeezes tightly. He nips at the corner of Merlin’s jaw, relishing the curls against his lips. “I said, go on.”

Merlin just sighs, a heavy and slow lifting and falling of his shoulders. Arthur will never tell him this, but he loves, possibly more than any other, this moment. When he can sit here, hands tracing the crevices of Merlin and watching his hands, with his long fingers, paint his face.

Merlin pours creamy liquid on a sponge and it’s slow strokes in circles around his cheeks, across his forehead, over his nose, the same as the strokes that might dig into Arthur’s thigh and part the cheeks of his ass. It’s gross, he knows it before he does it, but Arthur can’t help but lick the sharp line where Merlin’s beard cuts through his cheek.

It earns him a cheeky laugh and he kicks his legs out on either side of Merlin, digging his toes into Merlin’s ankles. “Shut it.”

Merlin does, bless him, but only so he can pat powder against his face, smoothing the sharp planes, making his skin a blank canvas. Sometimes it saddens Arthur, watching Merlin cover where the sun has kissed his face, but then he watches as Merlin dips his fingers in to a deep rouge and swirl it on his cheekbones. Arthur loves them, the rough, stone-hewn angles flushed and prominent, the way they hollow out below making him looked eternally debauched.

Arthur wants to sink his teeth into one, but he refrains because Merlin knows what he thinks. Arthur knows because Merlin leans forward, away from the warm heat and stares Arthur in the eyes through the mirror, proud, defiant. “I will stop, and wash it off right this second if you so much as lay a finger on my face before I am done.”

Arthur grins, slides his hands under Merlin’s shirt, skimming over the skin and curls there. “Just your face?”

Merlin frowns, teeth worrying his lips. But then he is a warm line against Arthur’s chest once more. “Just do not distract me, Pendragon.”

Arthur makes no promises as he slides a thumb over Merlin’s left nipple, pleased at the breathy gasp.

“Don’t distract me.” It’s growled out, heavy and low, but Merlin just picks up a shimmery powder. He studies it for a long moment, then returns it to the mass of products. There’s a thin tube he picks up, the same creamy color of his pale skin, that he dots over his eyes, let's rest a moment.

He holds a pallet up to Arthur, half to get his opinion and half to slow the hands that won’t stop spider-webbing their way over his thighs, his back, his belly. He pinches the crease of Merlin’s hips before he randomly points to a silvery shade. Merlin frowns, points at a dark gold, but Arthur shakes his head. “Silver, please.

Merlin sighs, but complies. He leans in close, and Arthur wines at the lack of warmth, but Merlin’s eyes are half lidded and even though he’s just brushing shades of silver on his lids, Arthur is entranced.

That’s the thing about these mornings, it’s as much about the ritual, about the sure movements of Merlin’s hands as it is about the finished product. Merlin studies the soft glow of his lids, tilts his head so the shimmer can catch the light, and then he is absently fishing for a something else. Arthur watches his hands scrabble, because Merlin refuses to look away from the mirror, and watches the gleam as he finds the small jar of dark brown… something.

“Hand me the smallest angled brush, please.”

Arthur does, no tricks or gimmicks, and he’s rewarded with fingers ghosting over his knee caps. He lets his eyes drift shut as Merlin lines his eyes in the dark-brown substance, and he knows Merlin can feel how this is affecting him; knows it by the gentle way Merlin pushes against him when he sets the jar down.

He misses Merlin painting his lashes and he’s bitter. As lovely as as the dark, thick lines framing his blue, blue eyes are, Arthur likes watching the slow blink-pull rhythm Merlin has. He bites at his neck to let him know, and Merlin keens in his throat. He’s panting and Arthur knows they’re almost done with this game, but he can’t help himself as he dips his fingers into Merlin’s waistband. Strong fingers grip his wrist, hold tight until Arthur knows he’ll have marks to cover, but he’s feeling defiant, so he pulls against the grip and slips his hand low, lower, until he is gripping Merlin.

“Please. I’m not done.” It’s Arthur’s turn to swallow, loud in the still of the early morning. Slowly, too slow, he removes his hand. He grips at Merlin’s hips, studies the pronounced cheeks and the sultry eyes. “Can I pick the color?”

Merlin nods and his cheeks, already a beautiful rose, darken with his eyes. Arthur looks through the collection of sticks and glosses and stains, in shades of pink and plum and red and brown. Sometimes, he likes to see Merlin painted like a harlot, with dark eyes and red lips, Sometimes he likes him natural, with pink lips and dewy cheeks. Today, he doesn’t know what he’s wanting, except that it is otherworldly, so he picks the palest of cream glosses he can.

Merlin frowns, and Arthur knows it’s because glosses are sticky and must be reapplied frequently, but he does as Arthur request, and if Arthur bucks, just once, as Merlin’s lips part, as he traces the wand over plump lips, Merlin doesn’t complain.

Later, Arthur knows, later his curls will be sticky with the gloss. Later there will be mascara to wash out of sheets and foundation dripping onto his skin. For now, he pushes Merlin until he is on his back, until his face is pillowed on long arms, until Arthur can ride him, and stare at that perfectly painted face.

“Don’t sweat it off. We have lunch plans.”

Merlin screws his eyes shut until Arthur pinches pink nipples, so that they are open. He doesn’t want Merlin smearing the dark lines rimming his eyes, though he knows he will have to re-powder his face after this.

Arthur attacks those pink, pink lips as Merlin sighs his release into Arthur’s mouth, and he cannot wait for later. But he will, for the chance to show his love off.

 


End file.
